


Zzzz

by anticyclone



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Good Omens Lockdown, Humor, M/M, demonic coffee brewing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25194997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/pseuds/anticyclone
Summary: Setting your alarm for July is all well and good, but Crowley would have been better off with a real alarm clock. Even a demon can't get around a dead battery.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	Zzzz

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Crowley set his alarm for July. Crowley also forgot to plug in the one device he owns that actually needs to be recharged. (In response to the [Lockdown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=quSXoj8Kob0) video Michael Sheen and David Tennant voiced.)

On the last day of June, Aziraphale made sourdough scones, waffles, crumpets, popovers, and chocolate cake.

He'd thought about this long and hard. It wasn't as if he could go shopping. Not at the kinds of stores that carried things Crowley enjoyed. And Crowley would take a bite of whatever he was presented with, out of habit and curiosity and kindness (not that Aziraphale would mention that last bit). He might even eat several things, in the distracted way he did if Aziraphale kept pushing food onto Crowley's plate while serving himself.

But showing up with a plate of baked goods he would have made anyway wouldn't cut it as a gift for Crowley, oh, not at all. Crowley ate, but he didn't _care_ about eating. Not the way Aziraphale did.

Crowley _did_ like to tend to things.

So on the last day of June, Aziraphale baked. Then he measured a small amount of starter into a modestly-sized jar that wouldn't take up too much room on Crowley's kitchen countertop. Really, it was going to be the perfect gift. Crowley would have to keep it, out of guilt, which would appeal to him. So too would having to look after it like another one of his plants.

The real card up Aziraphale's sleeve, though, were the discard recipes. There were plenty of wonderful ways to use sourdough discard. He would explain them all to Crowley, with examples. Then he could offhandedly mention that if one didn't care about being particularly wasteful, one could simply discard the discard. Crowley did so enjoy being particularly wasteful.

Not to mention the possibility of visiting simply for the prospect of making sure the starter was occasionally put to good use.

It would have been the perfect gift. Aziraphale was sure of it.

He packed a little basket by the door so he would be ready to go, with the jar nestled in amongst various sample pastries. A couple of late night hours burned away as he chose a wine to bring with him. Then there were all the dishes he'd left soaking that he really ought to clean before going over to the flat. And deciding which book to bring. Before he knew it, the clock on the wall said it was nearly noon.

It all would have been perfect. Except by the end of the first day of July, the clock on the wall said it was nearly midnight.

Crowley hadn't called.

***

Crowley woke up with a crick in his neck.

That was understandable, because in his sleep he had managed to burrow his head underneath a pillow, draw his knees up underneath himself, and tilt sideways onto a great nest of tangled sheets. It was undignified and uncomfortable, and untangling his left foot from the sheets took longer than he wanted to admit. Especially because as soon as his feet hit the floor, he realized he could've just miracled himself free.

Coffee. He needed coffee.

There was coffee in his kitchen, next to a glass jar. The coffee was expensive and meant to be brewed by setting it into a delicate filter and measuredly pouring boiling water over it. The bag said _whole beans._ When Crowley opened it, the beans were already ground. He mindlessly tipped some of it a mug, filled it with tap water, and put the mug into the microwave.

The amount of time didn't actually matter - it was the principle of the thing, not the physics - so he set it to ten minutes. Watching the mug rotate behind the glass was soothing.

He'd started brewing coffee this way after watching a woman at an airport explain to a man whose opinion she had not asked that this was how she brewed coffee at home, and wasn't it such a pity that airport coffee never lived up to standard? The ensuing meltdown had been the highlight of Crowley's year. He'd bought the woman a second latte when she'd finished her own.

(Sometimes when Crowley was behind on his quota, he bought a plane ticket just to hang out waiting for delayed flights. Guaranteed numbers boost.)

The coffee was the perfect temperature when it finally came out of the microwave. Really, it was a pity that Crowley had started doing it this way, because it actually _was_ better than any coffee he could get at a cafe.

He sipped it on his way back to his bedroom. His neck still hurt. Cracking it didn't help. Maybe a bath. Maybe a massage - ah, no, not unless a whole lot had changed since he went to sleep.

A tiny whisper at the back of his mind said maybe Aziraphale would do it, if Crowley looked pathetic enough.

Annnnd now he was awake.

Phone. He needed his phone.

He started digging through the mess of sheets. The awareness that he had woken up on his own, and not because of an alarm, filtered in slowly, like properly brewed coffee.

Crowley hesitated, wrists buried in black fabric. He cracked his neck again and kept digging. Going faster wouldn't help. It just meant he kept looking in the same spots, and tangling the sheets up worse. He could hear his phone bouncing around somewhere, he just couldn't _find_ it. Nevermind that he never woke up without his alarm. He'd said he was going to get up in July, so it had to be July - "Oh, fuck it."

He stood up and yanked the sheets off the bed, shaking them violently until a metallic clattering announced his phone had finally fallen free.

Dropping the sheets, he pounced.

Mobile phones gave Crowley a warm, tingly feeling. Sure, sure, they did lots of good and connected humanity and provided access to resources to those who otherwise wouldn't have them and blah blah blah. There had been a reason he'd gone after the mobile network all those years ago. A phone was a lovely, powerful thing. It created _need_ as powerfully as a coin superglued to a sidewalk. And the accessories! Leaving messages on read, fighting over outlets, praying to an uncaring deity that 6% battery would be enough to get you home.

The thing about mobile phones was they actually needed to be plugged in. A lot. And there had been one thing Crowley did not do before going to sleep.

He looked at the shiny, expensive brick in his hands and felt his stomach begin to crawl up inside his abdomen.

Even snapping his fingers wasn't enough to turn it back on. Miracles couldn't override certain basic principles: He couldn't make Hellfire not Hellfire, or bless water, or prevent telemarketers from calling him. An uncharged phone was an uncharged phone.

The ten minutes his coffee spent in the microwave had been soothing. The four minutes it took his mobile to charge enough to light up again was so horrible only the bookshop burning and the 14th century beat it out.

_20:53. Saturday, 8 August._

_47 missed calls. 12 voicemails._

***

At one minute past nine o'clock, Aziraphale managed to spill cocoa all over both himself, and Crowley.

This was something of a shock as Crowley had not been in the shop at nine o'clock, ten seconds ago.

"Oh, look what you've made me go and…" he started, before his brain caught up.

Crowley latched onto both of Aziraphale's wrists and held them so tight it hurt, except how it didn't at all. Both of their clothes should have been stained beyond repair. But when Aziraphale glanced down, his suit was in its usual condition and Crowley's shiny black pyjamas looked pristine, excepting the fact that his shirt was buttoned wrong. He'd missed one. Part of his shirt was all bunched up where it was buttoned too high, and everything else after that was wrinkled, too, and at his pale throat the collar of the shirt flopped open asymmetrically.

Aziraphale looked at the tiny black button at Crowley's neck and began to cry.

They were stupid, silent tears. His lungs didn't heave. His lip did wobble, and he bit down to stop it even as Crowley leaned forward to - to what? As soon as Aziraphale's teeth pressed against his lip, Crowley jerked back.

He did not let go of Aziraphale's wrists.

"Angel," he said. Oh. He hadn't put his sunglasses on. His eyes were yellow from edge to edge. The slits of his pupils scanned Aziraphale's face, back and forth. "My alarm-" He made a complicated warbling noise. "I didn't wake up."

It took a moment for Aziraphale to loosen the hitch in his chest enough to speak. "You've been asleep," he said.

"I'm sorry." There were sharp lines around Crowley's eyes. "My alarm didn't go off."

Aziraphale sniffed. His face was all wet, and his chin. Some of the tears had dripped onto his neck, too. It was quite unpleasant. "I know that, dear boy," he said, damply.

Crowley's pupils widened just a sliver. "You … do?"

Aziraphale would have normally made a casual, sweeping gesture with his hands. All he could do in Crowley's frantic grip was spread his fingers. He let the corner of his mouth turn up and entirely failed to sound casual. "I dropped by the flat, once or twice."

"You _did_?"

"Well, the plants did need watering. I know you're of the school of tough love with them," Aziraphale said, ignoring the mumbled protest Crowley put up at the word _love,_ "but even your plants needed to be watered in the interim."

"So I didn't show up with July," Crowley said, his eyebrows coming together, "and you came by to… check on my plants."

Aziraphale wriggled one wrist. Crowley reluctantly released him. He did not step back. He was very close. Aziraphale barely had room to bring his hands between them and rub some of the stiffness out of one wrist. "I suppose the first time, I was … checking on your welfare. And I left you a little jar of sourdough starter, by your coffee, and that has to be fed. The starter, not the coffee, of course."

Crowley continued staring at him. Aziraphale wanted to look away and couldn't. He felt very much like he had been caught in mis-buttoned pyjamas.

"I locked the door," Crowely finally said. "Know I did."

"I used the key under the mat."

Crowley opened his mouth. He didn't do or say anything else, but he did open his mouth.

Aziraphale shuffled back a couple of inches and clumsily pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve to dab at his eyes. "You caught me by surprise, that's all. I thought - I thought you would call, first. I started leaving you little updates in your voicemailbox." The hitch in his chest was swelling. It almost hurt, except how it didn't at all.

Crowley had rushed over so quickly he hadn't even stopped for sunglasses.

"You could have woken me up," Crowley said.

"I couldn't have. You looked so darling."

"Darling!" The tone was one of deep offense, but Crowley's mouth was twisted up in a grin. White showed at the corners of his eyes now.

Aziraphale hesitantly raised the hand not clutching a handkerchief and touched his fingertips to Crowley's cheek. "Yes," he said. He faltered and lowered his hand. Crowley's eyes tracked its fall. "And things are a little better now, but not… I remember how much you hated the fourteenth century, and the plague. I thought if you could sleep through some of it, I had to spare you."

Crowley's fingers were very warm, where they gingerly laced through Aziraphale's.

"I would have woken you by Christmas, anyways."

"Don't care about Christmas," Crowley reminded him. His eyes had drifted down to Aziraphale's mouth.

"Yes, well, I do," Aziraphale reminded him back. He hesitated. "I must admit I regret not deciding to huddle down together. Even if you were going to sleep the whole time."

"Ah, angel. You would've missed your books."

Aziraphale gave him a look. "I didn't say I would have settled into the flat. Besides, the bookshop is much more spacious."

Crowley wet his lip. It made Aziraphale inhale sharply. Crowley looked up at him and rumbled a little before offering, "Could try it that way, this time. If it's true that things aren't all that improved."

For a moment, Aziraphale considered explaining 'bubbles.'

Instead he said, "Well, you can hardly walk back to your place in those clothes," and leaned to press a kiss to Crowley's cheek.

Crowley's hand squeezed his, tight.

It didn't hurt at all.


End file.
